I’m gone. Completely fucking gone.
“Baby,” I say, voice gravel-rough from disuse and pure want, “whatever that theory is, I’m volunteering as tribute.”
She’s still panting, thighs pressed together like she’s trying to trap the ache, but her chin lifts in that stubborn way I love.
I step closer as Minerva pushes her glasses up her nose, cheeks blazing, and flips her phone around so I can see the screen. It’s a goddamn Google Sheet titledSolo Pleasure Optimization – Phase 2. Columns for date, duration, toy vs. fingers, clit pressure scale 1–10, lube brand, orgasm intensity, notes.
I stare. My brain blue-screens and reboots straight into my dick. She isn’t hiding. Not this. Not her desire. She’s letting me see the messy, honest parts she usually tucks behind data and defenses. She trusts me with it.
“Are you saying,” I manage, voice cracking like I’m fifteen, “you built a spreadsheet about your orgasms?”
She shrugs, earnest and completely unashamed. “Doesn’t everyone? I needed controlled variables. Otherwise, how do you iterate? The other day, I was wondering about multiples, and I went down a rabbit hole.”
Iterate. Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to breathe through the urge to throw her down and ruin every data point she’s collected. My cock is so hard it hurts, straining against my slacks, and she notices; of course, she does. Her gaze flicks down, and her lips part on a hungry inhale.
“Minerva,” I say, low and wrecked, “you are the hottest fucking nerd on the planet.”
Her blush deepens, but she doesn’t hide. She’s proud of her method, proud of her curiosity, and that pride is currently setting me on fire.
After I strip off my clothes, I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed, palms sliding up her bare calves. “Tell me the headline finding so far.”
“That…” She has to swallow. “That nothing gets me there as fast or hard as thinking about you.”
Game over.
I crowd her gently back against the pillows. The hoodie rides higher; I can see the wet patch on her panties now, smell how turned on she is, and my mouth actually waters.
“Good data,” I rasp, settling between her thighs, letting her feel exactly how hard her little science project has made me. “But your sample size is biased, baby. You’re missing the live variable.”
Her hips rock up, seeking friction. “I was hoping you’d be available for the next trial.”
I lean down until our foreheads touch. “I’m gonna need you to show me that spreadsheet. Later.” I nip her bottom lip, soothe it with my tongue. “After I make you hit all four quadrants in one session.”
Her breath hitches. “There are only three tracked—”
“Trust me,” I growl against her lips, “I’m adding a fourth.”
I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting salt and coconut and pure want. The hoodie is in my way; I push it up to her collarbones and just stare for a second. I can’t get enough of those tits, flushed pink, nipples already tight. She tries to tug the fabric back down, old instinct, but I catch her wrists and pin them gently above her head with one hand.
“Uh-uh. I’ve been starving for days. Let me look.” I need her to know she can stop me with one word. That she’s safe with me, even when I’m losing my mind.
Her breath stutters. I kiss every inch I’ve missed: sternum, ribs, the silky underside of one breast. Then I let her wrists go and keep moving south, open-mouthed, reverent.
When I reach her panties, I hook my fingers in the waistband of the soaked lace. She lifts her hips to help me peel them off, and the scent of her hits me so hard I groan out loud.
There’s a little brown bottle on the nightstand. Foria. I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s CBD-infused,” she explains, suddenly shy. “Supposed to heighten sensitivity and relax muscle tension, but the studies say it works best with… partner application.”
Partner application. I’m gonna die.
I slick two fingers through her lips and spread them open. Her pussy’s dripping, swollen, so ready it’s obscene. She’s trembling, thighs twitching, but her eyes stay locked on mine, trusting, curious, brave.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say, and then I lower my mouth and lick her slowly, from entrance to clit, one long, filthy stripe.
Her back arches off the bed. “Tristan—”
